


If The Fruit Is Ripe Enough

by vash (yarost)



Series: Tom/Harry omegaverse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Deathly Hallows AU, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Harry Potter, Rimming, Slight feminization, mentions of mpreg, self indulgent ticket to hell fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:58:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarost/pseuds/vash
Summary: Victory had eluded him tonight, but Lord Voldemort cared not. Another conquest, sweeter still, waited him here, in the Malfoy Manor. For Harry Potter himself was currently held in bondage a few meters from him, guarded by his followers (...)Voldemort arrives in the Malfoy Manor to find a very Omega Harry Potter in heat.Or: I didn't find the cliche alpha/omega Harrymort I wanted so I decided to write it.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most self-indulging thing I've ever wrote. There's a lack of Omegaverse in this fandom I saw fit to fix, although I shouldn't cause, really, this is pure, filthy sin. Anyway, hope you like it.

 

He came down garbed in fog and shadow, his tongue still salty with sea, his clothes carrying the lingering tang of recent death.

 

Victory had eluded him tonight, but Lord Voldemort cared not. Another conquest, sweeter still, waited him here, in the Malfoy Manor. For Harry Potter himself was currently held in bondage a few meters from him, guarded by his followers, a terribly unlucky princess with lips to be kissed by a most deadly, eager prince.

 

Voldemort smiled and let the inhumanity of his face dissolve into secret beauty. Only a few of his death eaters knew what was veiled by monstrosity: he was handsome again as he had been decades ago, strong of body and dark-haired. The lights were on in the house, but otherwise there was no sign of the commotion described rapidly by Lucius: apparently some of the mercenaries in his employ had managed to capture Potter and two of his friends. Once they were brought to the Manor and properly stupefied, laying unconscious in separate cells, the Dark Lord was made aware of such bounty.

 

Lucius looked at him with both hope and fear, having pleased his Master for the first time in many, many months.

 

“You did well, Lucius.” The Dark Lord conceded, feeling merciful, almost generous with the amount of glory he would experience tonight. “All your wrongdoings - your whole family’s - are henceforth forgiven.” There was relief, then, in the wizard’s expression, deep and honest, along with a certain devotion the dawned in those features now that his God had favoured him once more.

 

“Milord... thank you.... thank you....”

 

“Take me to him.” Voldemort ordered, impatient.  

 

Lucius hesitated at that, to which the Dark Lord responded with the narrowing of his eyes, and the cold vicious fury of the power that overflowed from him.

 

“Is there a problem, Lucius?” He asked, a curse so ready within his throat like the taking of a breath “Have you wasted my time with false reports? Or have you damage the boy in any way? Rest assured, both faults shall warrant your demise.”

 

“No...! Not at all, Milord...!” The scant colour of Malfoy’s face was drained. “The boy is, well, as healthy as he can be in his condition...”

 

“Condition? What condition?”

 

“It would be best if I just showed you, Milord.”

 

Annoyed, but equally curious, Voldemort followed the death eater to the bowels of the mansion. They were heading to the upper floor, where numerous chambers were ready to host in luxury and elegance any worthy guest. A strange place, therefore, to keep a prisoner as infamous as the boy-who-lived. Lucius halted at the end of a corridor, and opened a tall, white door.

 

“We’ve been misguided, it seems, regarding the true nature of the boy...”

 

Inside there was a large bed on which laid a small, quivering body. Harry Potter was tied to the bed frames by enchanted bindings, moaning faintly and apparently unaware of who had just entered.

 

The boy raised his head languidly, his green eyes, robbed of his glasses, wet with unshed tears, his cheeks a pretty, sinful pink.

 

Being an unmated Alpha himself, the Dark Lord scarcely needed Lucius’s next words. He recognized the state of the boy by smell alone.

 

“Harry Potter is an Omega.” Lucius informed “And he’s in heat.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I'm going to hell.

“Leave us.”

 

Comes the order, from Voldemort’s pale mouth.

 

Lucius heeds at once.

 

Now he is alone with the boy. For the first time, no less. As if privacy, an unchaperoned encounter, had not been his right since the very beginning. His is a quiet triumph, taken in with every poisoned breath. The scent is filling his lungs, the honeyed reek of an Omega bitch. The poison fills the boy, too, for his body now reacts to the Alpha’s pheromones, twisting hopelessly in search of the ease he will only find by being mounted, stuffed and _bred _.__

__

_Pace yourself_. As much as the Alpha in him is sure of what should happen next, he isn’t mindless, he isn’t lost like the boy. He could still kill him. Get rid of the chosen one in such sweet terms.

 

Voldemort smiles. _However._

__

Omegas are rare creatures, even among wizards. A little more of ten percent of the totality of the world’s population are classified as such. Theirs is a tough life. An Omega’s biology, once brought forth by puberty, exercises a much deeper influence in their lives than those of Alpha’s and Beta’s. Right now, even if the boy can recognise Voldemort for who he is, his body, supplicant for an Alpha, overwhelms any attempt of resistance. This is probably the boy’s first heat, which worsens considerately the situation for him.

 

A late bloomer, apparently. What a _delicious_ predicament.  

 

“Alpha,” The boy whimpers, looking up at Voldemort and arching his back, “Alpha, _touch me _\--”__

__

This alone almost unmakes the Dark Lord.

 

Had he not dreamt such submission? Had he not wished for it, had it not eluded him every time he met the boy? Harry is a Gryffindor through and through, a stubborn, brave little thing, defiant and annoyingly unbent. _Oh if you could see yourself now _.__ But to nature Harry Potter shall yield as he has never to a wand. To his own traitorous needs he will be prey as much as he is to love. It could be grand, it could be yet more damning than death (perhaps the old man was right after all, there _were_ fates worse than death), for to claim the boy is to subdue him. Voldemort has, in the bite of his teeth, the power to bind Harry even more tightly to him than he already is. A claimed Omega is, mostly, an obedient Omega. Harry will never again be able to fight him fiercely.

 

It helps that the boy is his, had been his since his birth. His in death, but now in life too.

 

The Omega whines, high and needy, deliciously pathetic.

 

He’s so beautiful too.

 

Bitten almost raw by his own teeth, Harry’s lips are a cherry red. His body dressed in colours that even the dim light cannot wane. Crimson on the cheeks, green on the eyes, dark of hair and pale everywhere else, the boy is a token from a fairy tale. An apple to a God’s eye. The very feast a devil would steal from sacred mouths. Like this - hectic, begging, wanton - Harry looks _sacrificial_.

 

A virgin too, as pagan offerings usually are.

 

Voldemort sits on the bed and touches for the first time the skin that is feverish, the skin which needs his touch above all things. Harry mewls, closing his eyes and finding a fleeting comfort on the cool palm that hold his cheek.

 

 _ _“_ Have you any idea _,”__ Voldemort whispers in the language shared by their tongues alone __“_ how deeply you’re ruined? _”__

__

The boy’s eyes widen, and Voldemort finds the gleam of awareness in them. In his very core, under the strain of sexual fever, Harry know exactly who he is talking to. He knows who will take what he is giving.

 

 _ _“_ I don’t care _,”__ The chosen one replies, in the same parseltongue, __“_ I need to be knotted. I need you, Alpha.” _

 

The dirty little harlot.

 

As far as he is capable of empathy, the Dark Lord muses on the boy’s motives for such little fuss: he had been travelling for a long time now, famished and lacking of the prosaic luxuries his previous life had, like a real roof and a real bed. He wants to be cared for, to be held by someone stronger, larger than his lithe frame. Or maybe it’s just lust, corrosive and maddening, fuelled further by the fact that Voldemort is the very apex of Alpha, that his seed is strong like his magic, that he can breed the boy good and hard until he has his enemy’s whelp inside his belly.

 

By the hiss of a spell, Voldemort eases the bindings around the boy’s wrists. Immediately those hands reach for him, grasping at his robes. But the Dark Lord grabs the boy by the hair on the back of his head - with such long locks now the Omega looks even more effeminate - and _pulls_ until the ivory of Harry’s neck is exposed and a yelp of pain blooms from his lips.

 

“You will behave.” The older Wizard says, sharp and dominating. “You will present yourself like a proper Omega and I shall have my way with you.”

 

Harry looks at him with a somewhat cross expression that fits him well. Voldemort almost smiles; the boy is _cute _,__ and the absurdity of the situation hits him without lessening his intent. He is about to fuck the boy-who-lived. He is perverting their tale. And what comes about in the arch of his smile is dark and silent and ungodly. If he was to die, there should be a circle in hell created just for him. But he won’t, now more than ever.

 

The fight mellows down in the little moan the Omega produces, in the way he calls for him. _Alpha _.__ Voldemort’s lips press on the untouched skin of the boy’s neck, not yet breaking it, not yet marking him in irreversible ways. He sucks and worries a wine-coloured stain on the milk of that neck, stimulating the boy’s bonding gland and making him flail his legs and moan, high and desperate, clutching at the wizard’s shoulders and bending his neck to better offer the flesh for assault. Between the boy’s thighs, Voldemort is sure to find the pearl wetness of Omegas. He can _smell_ it already and his hunger grows with its sweetness and his fingers seek what his lungs had already relished. With no patience for the slow, manual undressing, the Dark Lord spells the boy’s clothes away. He wraps one arm around the boy’s slender torso, keeping his back off the mattress, while his other hand goes lower, beneath the Omega’s hard little cock. Those pale thighs fall open easily, and a shudder takes the boy whole when the first finger grazes at the tight skin of his entrance.

 

“Yes, please, please--” Harry begs, sounding almost in pain, nails digging hard on Voldemort’s flesh, and screams a pretty, feeble sound when the finger finally breaches him.

 

Oh. Untouched to an extent almost unheard in the youth of his age. The boy pants, hips rolling tentatively against the Alpha’s hand. The realisation is wicked, glorious: Of how many firsts will he strip the boy tonight?

 

“How very wet you are, my beautiful little whore.”

 

Voldemort murmurs against a red-kissed patch of skin on Harry’s shoulder. The boy mewls and has still the presence of mind to blush. He’s so pretty like this and in his beauty the Alpha finds inspiration for a certain worship. He’s not a particularly generous lover, but he always did covet the things too beautiful to be his. His lips touch the boy’s sternum, where the skin is so thin it’s almost translucent, his ear, his cheeks - all of which was so holy and is now tainted. __The boy is his.__ In a way, Voldemort burns hotter for this little virgin than he has ever before for all the omegas, betas and alphas - women and men - that have shared his bed. Harry has always lived beneath his skin. This feels like a ritual. Almost matrimonial.

 

Two fingers inside the Omega’s tight hole now, and the Dark Lord’s lips closing around a nipple pink and rigid. Voldemort tortures him by simultaneously rubbing with the tip of his fingers the bundle of nerves in the boy’s core and licking and biting his shallow chest. Voldemort feels his cock throb with the beastly idea of seeing the boy flowering with milk, heavy and pregnant and utterly dominated. It’s the Alpha in him, he knows, the creature that wants to procreate even though Voldemort sees little point in siring bastards. But how __lovely__  it would be. An adamant victory, to parade Dumbledore’s golden child with a belly full of his progeny, once the war is won and Wizard Britain is under his command. He smiles, cruel and amused, and keeps on finger-fucking the Omega. Harry’s body is a taut bow and his mouth speaks only in moans, whimpers and cries. His nipples are red and abused and his cunt tightens against Voldemort’s fingers, wet and needy. He’s very close to his first orgasm.

 

When it comes it leaves the boy shaking, wide-eyed and shocked by the pleasure his body contains.

 

It is a most elated sight.

 

But his peak is treacherous and although he’s spilled his barren seed across his stomach, the Omega is even needier than before. While the heat lasts, while he’s empty of cock and knot, Harry will remain unsated no matter how many times he comes.

 

Voldemort takes his fingers out of the boy - Harry whimpers softly - and licks them. His slick is honey against the Dark Lord’s tongue. It tastes sweet, almost too much. It will become sharper once Voldemort takes his virginity, just like the pink skin of his hole will darken slightly to a harlot red.

 

Harry stays like this - the shadow of his breathing so palpable beneath his ribs - in temporary enthralment, and whatever song Voldemort has created in his core is now coming to an end. He needs more, more, more. He’s tasted the fruit and, having glanced over his shoulder still in Hades, he’s already as good as lost. It will take the mark and the knotting to seal the deal, but Voldemort already savours it: the boy is his. His small, enslaved bride.

 

He lets the boy lick his own sweetness off his fingers. His green eyes follow Voldemort’s face with some distant curiosity. Here’s the man he once met as a handsome teenager, its natural evolution, not the snake made human brought forth in a cauldron, once upon a time in a graveyard. Out of his languid, feverish thoughts, open wide due to the boy’s lack of defences, Voldemort fishes this: _Someone so beautiful can’t be so bad, right?_ The Alpha smiles, very amused. Both the ugliness of the monster and the beauty of the prince have their uses for him. Now the latter serve its purpose of spreading smoothly the boy’s thighs, of extinguishing whatever resistance his inhuman mask should evoke. The devil is not always scarlet and horned. He’s beautiful when he chooses to and, thus, sin is created.

 

“Now present for me, Harry.”

 

His voice is velvet and betrays his own arousal. The boy hesitates for a moment only, not having done this before, but follows an ancestral instinct, which guides him into a very adequate display for a first-timer. He turns in the bed and touches with his chest the warm sheets, while arching his back in lovely lordosis, knees akimbo and ass exposed.

 

The Omega is so pink there, so endearingly innocent between the cheeks, so very untouched all this time... It makes the Dark Lord want to _ruin_ him, to spank his ass until he’s pink there too, to fuck him open before the whole of the Order of Phoenix, to make him crawl for a taste of his cock. _Plenty of time for that in the future _.__ Now he has more urgent cravings.

 

He parts the boy’s cheeks with his hands and spreads his ass with his thumbs. Harry shivers and moans softly, a sound so timid it almost goes unnoticed.

 

“Nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. You have a lovely Omega cunt.”

 

Harry whines at that and Voldemort knows he’s blushing. Rubbing the quivering flesh with the pad of his thumb, he keeps on taunting the boy:

 

“Now tell me what you would like me to do with it. Should I ruin it, Harry? Should I fuck it until it’s gaping? Should I--” and by then the boy is trembling with need “ _kiss_ it first?”

“Please!” The boy cries out, his voice somewhat muffled by the sheets. “Please, please, oh God--”

 

“A little too soon to be calling His name. I’m not nearly done with you.”

 

It’s not something he does very frequently, but this is a very special occasion and so he touches with his lips the Omega’s wet, warm schism, and licks him with his tongue. This perhaps was unthinkable for the boy, a nameless depravity that fills him up with the most wicked desperation, and he moans a startled sound, eyes wide and legs opening yet more, allowing room for the Alpha’s transgression. The Dark Lord spares him not; he opens the boy up for his mouth and fucks him with his tongue, plunging deep and sating his thirst on the Omega’s slick, making him wail. He wraps a hand around the boy’s hard little cock and strokes it, lapping at his hole at the same time. It’s too much, and Harry sobs his pleasure before coming fast, hard, his body shaking beautifully.

 

The Omega has pretty tears in his eyes. He looks so very, very young. Voldemort holds him by the hair and kisses him on the mouth for the first time. Harry’s lips open shyly, as if this is the first touch, the first of Voldemort’s trespasses upon his flesh. It all began with the scar shaped as light, it will end with another scar entirely. The kiss is undoubtedly tender, and cruel in its tenderness. The Alpha bites lightly the boy’s lip and then whispers: “You know who I am.”

 

The boy nods.

 

“And yet you want me.”

 

Harry sobs again - perhaps a glimpse of shame, the realisation of the depth of his debauchery - and nods once more.

 

It’s a mockery of consent, really. It’s for Voldemort’s pride and sadism, not for the boy’s comfort. Although this isn’t a crime he has committed before, the Dark Lord would take the Omega even if the answer was no. This was never a body whose borders he would respect.

 

Voldemort finally sets himself behind those pale thighs, pressing his cock against the very edge of the boy’s needy hole. His hands spread across narrow hips, the pads of his fingers digging slightly, a subtle, gentle claim. For a moment he allows Harry this illusion: that his taking will come pricelessly, that no more of his pride will be sacrificed in the same altar his virginity lays to die. But, as kind as his hands are upon this body, as much as his face is handsome and his body elegant, Voldemort is still a monster, bearer of hellish hungers and crude words.  

 

“You know what that makes you, Harry Potter? A filthy, cock-hungry whore. Isn’t it so? _Answer me _!__ ” with that, he moves one of his hands to the boy’s hair, pulling him harshly out of the small comfort of hiding his face on the sheets. On his hands and knees like a bitch, the boy cries out:

 

“Yes!”

 

His voice is barred with tears, but his ass is even wetter than before, clenching in its emptiness. Voldemort considers for a moment taking the boy on his back, watching all the despair and elation that pretty face will betray. However, the situation calls for tradition, and the position in which Harry finds himself is ageless, ancestral.

 

“You’d let me fuck you, claim you, perhaps even _impregnate_ you--” Voldemort twists the Omega’s dark hair, and with a smile, condemns him further: “ _Beg for it _.__ ”

 

He waits, then, for his little bird to begin his song of defeat. Harry’s voice is a trembling thing and his mouth never tasted these words. There was never a lover to pull them from him. This Voldemort knows not, but he can guess: the ones that touched Harry before were kinder.

 

“Please, I--” The blush spreads like a sickness on that young face, fever and shame undivided “I--I need you to _fuck me _.__ P-please Tom-- knot me...f-fill my womb. I need it so much, please. Please.”

 

Even the use of his given name is not enough to lessen what he feels, the exultation, the pure, dense lust that these words inflict him further. In fact, it may even increase it. By saying his name, the boy gives himself completely. _Take me, I’m yours. There’s not enough blood in your hands to stop me from spreading my legs for you._ Voldemort’s - _Tom’s _-__ cock is hard now to the point of pain. He lines up against Harry’s hole and finally gives them both what they want.

 

It’s a sweeter victory, far more than one he would find in the battlefield.

 

Harry is heavenly tight around him, his flesh yielding eagerly to the Dark Lord’s thick cock, swallowing him up inch by inch. This is holy ground and Voldemort fills it with sin. The boy’s eyelashes flutter and his eyes roll back as he moans, straying forever. From the Alpha’s own mouth comes the sound choked until then, a groan, deep and long. As his hips finally press against that pink ass, as they join in union profane, the knot in Tom’s lower belly tightens and he moans, for a moment as vulnerable as the boy. _It can’t be _.__

 

But there it is, beckoning him. Pass the Omega’s skin, pass his aching womb, on the very centre of Harry, a piece of his shattered soul rests like a light, like a lost limb, like the seed and the fruit, like the first of courting gifts.       

 

_Harry is an horcrux._

__

It all falls elegantly into place. Their mental connection, the boy’s ability to speak the language of snakes -- for a moment, Tom feels dizzy. How could he not have noticed it before? And this is how they meet again, him and a parcel of his soul. Through the most primal of acts.

 

“ _Alpha! _”__ Harry calls, bringing him back to the delicious present. “Please move, I need--”

 

Gripping the boy’s hips, Voldemort fucks him. He doesn’t dwell on how changed is the game, he doesn’t need to. He’s smart, too smart, and the future lays itself for him with perfect clarity. He resumes the consummation, thrusting hard inside the Omega, hitting his prostate with the crown of his cock. Harry cries out, pushing himself back against the Alpha, wanton and beautiful. There’s a litany of words coming out of his mouth, half of them in parseltongue, all rites to a same deity. His body shakes with the force of the Alpha’s rutting, and it would move forward if not for Voldemort’s strong hands holding him in place. Tom watches his cock disappear inside that pink hole, watches that pale, lithe back bedewed with transpiration, watches the black ink of the boy’s hair, feels the shard of himself within the boy and knows him to be his, entirely his, irrevocably his, and it’s a feeling almost, - almost akin to love.

 

So it’s quite an overstatement when the Alpha pulls Harry - as he moans his impending orgasm and his need for Voldemort’s knot - to rest his head against his shoulder, to press his back to the Dark Lord’s toned chest, to offer what’s already his, to bend his neck and expose it as the Alpha’s knot finally swells. But Tom Riddle has always been a thorough gentleman, and possessive to a brutal extent. He touches the skin over the bonding gland with lips, panting slightly against it. He’s about to come too. Along the gentle curve of Harry’s neck, Voldemort signs again his ownership. The boy cries out, entirely unmade, and comes for the third time. His eyes close and his body tightens viciously around the Alpha’s cock as it’s filled to the very brim with seed. Voldemort’s knot ties them together and he groans as Harry milks him for everything he has, his teeth carved deep in the Omega’s skin, reshaping the fabric of his desire, poisoning him yet more, mercilessly biting into existence the shackles of his most precious prisoner. Harry Potter has never been more helpless, nor more beautiful.

 

_Mine._

__

Speaks the Dark Lord, directly into the boy’s mind.

 

_Yours._

 

Harry echoes, for there is no other truth.

 

The high rushes eventually, although the two wizards stay locked. Harry’s body will milk more of his Alpha’s seed through the night to ensure conception. Tom arranges them both on the bed, laying on his side with Harry in his arms. The Omega purrs contentedly and quickly falls asleep. Voldemort stays awake, idly playing with the boy’s hair. The heat will last, probably, three or four days more, during which he will fuck his Omega until he can’t walk. But the morning...oh, the morning shall bring a momentarily clarity to Harry before the fever sets in again. And with clarity, the conscience, the realization of what he’s done, of how sealed is his fate now... Voldemort grins before closing his eyes and letting sleep take him.

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry for taking so long to upload this third and final chapter. I might do a follow-up to this fic if enough people want it. For now, I just want to thank everyone that read it. Thank you for all the comments and kudos! You are all amazing <3 I really love this ship, as wicked as it is, and I'm glad to know other people like it! I hope you enjoyed this fic until now and I hope you enjoy its last installment.

On the onset of his wakening first comes a dream of most vivid, debauched content. Too vivid, in fact, to be a dream at all. It was indeed his body, turned into mindless hedonism by fever, those were indeed his lips, made bloody by too much kissing, it was indeed his _cunt,_ finally deflowered, still wet with his own arousal and the Alpha’s seed. And with limbs entwined, Voldemort and he are still one.

 

Harry Potter has never known dread such as this.

 

 _“No,”_ he sobs, shocked, disgusted with himself, his heart a maddened bird within the cage of his ribs, his death-coloured eyes filling quickly with unwanted tears.  

 

 _ _“_ Yes.” _Answers the Dark Lord, an amused growl against the shell of the boy’s ear, as his strong arms trap the Omega once more, his form pushing the boy’s against the mattress, his cock already hardening for his morning fill.

 

“No...No...stop!”

 

Harry cries as he’s plunged into. Voldemort doesn’t even deign to use his magic to vanquish the boy’s protests, he does so with his hands alone, twisting the Omega’s arm painfully over his back with one, grabbing the ebony hair with the other. And there, in the painful curve of the boy’s pale limb, lays all the torture he shall allow upon his little hero. The fucking itself barely harms him, as rough as it is, for his hole is wet and loose and, despite Harry’s resistance, producing fresh slick to ease the way for its rightful owner.

 

“Hush,” says Tom, somewhat breathless with his wicked pleasure enhanced by his Omega’s shame “and you will enjoy this, as you did last night.”

 

The words burn a wound across the boy’s already tormented pride and dignity, and unmake him into helpless little moans and tears lost to the white sheets. And even then his body, traitorous and whorish, exults in the forced penetration, and welcomes the desire of his Alpha as its own.  

 

 

 

 

He rises again when the sun has done it too and the large windows of Malfoy’s Manor are filtering the light.

 

His mind is blessedly, unmercifully unclouded.  

 

Voldemort reads the paper with his back against the bed-frame, drinking coffee from time to time from a porcelain cup. No ghastly white skin, no noseless features. His eyes are a dark blue, his skin is pale but human, and he looks like the handsome memory from Harry’s childhood. It’s the normality of the scene, the domestic, trivial softness of that man who reads the paper and drinks coffee, who fucks too and aches, that unsettles the boy into an instant of inaction.

 

Harry tries again: _this could be a dream. A weird, awful dream._

__

“Why?”

 

The Omega asks simply, almost calmly, after deciding that life has never been kind to him and probably doesn’t mean to start now.

 

Tom gazes at him for a moment and then says, eyes darting back to the paper:

 

“I thought it was obvious.”

 

There - in the casualness of the answer, in the words bestowed to him with the ease of the mundane, Harry finds his rage again. It swells wonderfully in his young chest. It’s a reliable, familiar feeling, that fills him up leaving no hollow for shame or fear. For the first time since the afternoon of the day before Harry feels like himself again.

“ _No _,__ it’s not fucking obvious, why would you--- you _hate_ me, you disgusting, rotten--”

 

The tears come too but now they’re fervent, they’re righteous.

 

Voldemort interrupts him in the midst of his riot:

 

“Oh, but you looked exquisite last night, _darling_ , begging me like a bitch--”

 

Parted from his wand, Harry has only his fists. He slaps the Dark Lord, hard, across the cheek. It warrants a brief bemusement from the slapped, followed by a smile. Harry is trembling, he feels with all the clarity his body contains, even as the heat steadily creeps in once more.

 

“You raped me. I didn’t want it. You... you took advantage...”

 

But as the words come out from his lips, the realises how useless they were. What is he trying to do, elucidate the Dark Lord on his crimes? Teach him morality?    

 

“I hardly raped you, Harry Potter, there was no need for it. You wanted me, and even the flames of your heat could not confound you regarding my identity.” The Dark Lord states, sounding almost bored. He then grabs the boy’s skinny wrist - that offending hand - and looks at him with eyes filled with red. “Now, you will never strike me again. You seem to have forgotten, so I’ll remind you: you were not captured alone. I have your friends and I can kill them as easily as I can break this lovely arm of yours. You will obey me, _Omega _,__ unless you want them to suffer my wrath.”

 

As fast as it came, the ire bleeds out, replenished by fear.

 

_Ron and Hermione _._ _

__

__“__ Where are they?” Harry asks, pale, his voice not yet completely deprived of rage but nearing it. This is a game lost in its infancy. Voldemort has no dear hearts living outside his chest, just pieces of his soul. Harry’s main fears are not for himself but for those he love and love will unmake him as much as it has saved him. “What did you do?” the boy insists, nostrils flaring, too angry to beg but fearful enough to keep himself from shouting.

 

“Enjoying the hospitality of the Malfoy’s dungeons, but otherwise unscathed.”

 

“I want to see them.”

 

“Is the word of your Alpha not enough for you, Harry?”

 

“You are not my Alpha.”

 

The boy replies sharply. Tom smiles and puts the Daily Prophet away.

 

“Oh, but I am. I marked you last night. We are bonded. And I don’t need to tell you this, you feel it.”

 

Harry looks away then, his hand going up to the bruise on his neck as the tears come again. His body is warm, well-fucked, sore, but sweetly so. Tom’s smile hurts, it reminds him of when he was twelve and had his first crush, not knowing his sweetheart was the murderer of his family. He wishes for the monster now, for the reptile he met on that graveyard. Than the thing he feels would be repulse and it wouldn’t hurt so much.

 

A drop finally falls from his eye, making its away down the Omega’s cheekbone before finishing its trail somewhere within the black locks of his hair. It’s somewhat beautiful and Voldemort watches it, fascinated. The boy looks up again.

 

“But why?” He’s holding the sheets to his chest, seeking to protect a modesty already savaged. “You could have killed me. Why didn’t you?”

 

Tom dries with his finger the wet trace on Harry’s cheek and licks the salt from his skin. The boy doesn’t pull away.

 

“I realised what you are. My lost horcrux.”

 

“No.” Harry says, and the answer is as instinctive as the change in his expression, the pained, almost offended furrowing of his brow. “No, you’re wrong.”

 

“I _was_ wrong when I tried to kill you, my darling. I should have cherished you as the treasure you are...my pretty human horcrux.”

 

To harm him, to thrust the knife true and clean into the flesh he’s worshipped, the Dark Lord speaks like a lover. It wounds Harry more than a cruciatus ever could and, for Voldemort, is an interesting exercise in the only love he can feel. He never had a muse for these gentle words. He cherishes Harry, his treasure indeed, like the dragon who hoards the bones of its killings.

 

“I looked into your mind while you were sleeping” Tom presses on, tracing a random path in that delicate face with his fingers “I know that Dumbledore sent you on a hunt for my horcruxes. I can see his plan now and it would have ended with you dead, the sacrifice needed for my demise. Does it _hurt _,__ Harry, knowing that the man you trusted so much sent you to your death like a lamb?”

 

Harry slaps the Alpha’s hand away. The last phrases were said with refined, satisfied mockery.

 

His life, never easy to begin with, has turned into a boschian nightmare since the evening before. _It makes sense _.__ The rational part of his brain evaluates, dispassionately: _that’s why I can talk to snakes. That’s why I can see through his eyes....feel what he feels _.__

__

He starts to feel feverish again, as he did the day before. It’s almost - and he hates himself for feeling so - a relief. There’s such freedom in his necessity for sex, as if he’s reaching a haven beyond morality, more ancient and sacred than the world of reason. But he _needs_ reason too, he needs to negotiate the terms of his surrender while his mind is clear enough, so he clings to it as fiercely as he can. And because he knows Tom can feel it too, can smell it in him like the lingering of rainwater on a freshly dug grave, the words come fast. Harry swallows up the bitterness of his defeat for now, focusing on the practicalities of keeping his friends alive and his body sated.

 

“I’ll do what you want. I’ll be good, I promise.”

 

“Show me.”

 

Voldemort says, and Harry is already something he’s preying upon, his long, strong limbs enveloping the smaller body.

 

Harry moans, as if the sheer proximity of his Alpha is already enough to excite him and it is, indeed it is, and he kisses the Dark Lord with the chaste, hesitant kisses of his mouth. His hands hold the murderer’s face gently, carefully, as their lips press together. It’s not enough and Voldemort deepens the touch and leaves him panting before allowing the boy to speak again.

 

“Promise me no one else gets hurt.”

 

“After you address the rebels. You will tell them to surrender.”

 

The boy closes his eyes, sways back into his ideals. Tom’s eyes shine scarlet and he bites that pale neck, making the Omega gasp, before squeezing it with his hand.

 

“Look at me. Harry. _You will tell them to surrender _.__ ”

 

There are fresh tears in those bright green eyes but the boy nods, and Voldemort can already smell the slick between his thighs. There’s so little choice in this, but he indulges the Omega. This could be - will be - a good _marriage _.__ An alliance without conflict, based on Tom’s capacity for mercy and Harry’s utter, unquestionable submission.

“I will, I promise.”

 

The Dark Lord lays the boy down again, and they kiss with all the hunger of newly-weds. Harry sighs against his mouth, and Tom can feel the strain in his mind give away to lust, the alpha pheromones in his saliva accelerating the natural process. Unbound, Harry is a different creature. His hands touch the Alpha’s back, his shoulders, lose themselves is his dark hair, needy and eager and inexperienced, seeking to touch all of his mate at once. Between his thighs the older wizard settles in the most pious of positions.  

   

“You will be my consort. My _beloved _.__ ” Tom says, and it is much a promise as it is a demand.

 

“But you don’t love. You don’t know how.” Harry chokes, arching up as the Alpha sucks greedily at his nipple, nipping the fragile skin. He moans, poor thing, and begs wordlessly for his corruption.

 

“Oh, but you could teach me.” The Dark Lord jeers, cruel, tepid. No kind flower grows in his heart and yet, to tease the boy, to toy with the possibility, to appeal to the gentle nature of the little lamb in his arms -

 

(To let him think: _I can cure the Villain of his vileness_ )

 

Harry sobs the first _please_ of a whole symphony, already damned and beautifully so, and it’s not so far-fetched, is it, to _love_ this boy, darkly as a love born of Voldemort requires--

 

This time, he doesn’t ease him on his fingers first. Voldemort fucks into him roughly, a sharp thrust that pulls a cry from the boy’s lips. His eyelashes are shimmering with tears like diamonds and his eyes remain closed as his body accepts the intrusion. Harry trembles, moans, full of cock to the brim. Voldemort groans - is such a tight cunt the one that envelopes him - and pushes back the idea of actually loving the boy. It’s the lust, he reasons, it’s the high of victory getting to his head, it’s the rediscovering of his hated enemy in such new light.

 

He stills, sated for a moment in just rejoicing in the tightness of that body and the wonders of his conquest.

 

“Tom, please--”

 

Smirking, nibbling at Harry’s neck, _Tom_ answers:

 

“What do you want, Harry?”

 

The Omega whimpers and kisses his mate. It hurts, of course, Voldemort is too thick inside him, too big, and he wishes the pain was something to dislike. But it’s not, as his body moulds to Tom’s, pliable and satisfied in belonging to this wretched Alpha. He wonders if the shard of the foreign soul he carries inside was absorbed, welcomed in the same way - the cliché is almost inevitable - like a piece that was missing.

 

_“Move!”_

__

The boy demands, pushing his crossed ankles at the small of Voldemort’s back. He hears the Dark Lord’s amused chuckle - such a human sound, how can he be capable of it? - and closes his eyes, crying out as that sweet spot inside him is rubbed by his Alpha’s cock.

 

The enormity of what happened is too much, too heavy, and Harry feels guilty and awful and glad as the pleasure washes it away. What he wants right now it’s simple: for that cock to keep fucking him until the knot grows, for that mouth to keep kissing him as they move against each other, for the seed of his Alpha to make room in his womb and flourish. _Ah _,__ Harry mewls, chasing his orgasm as well as Tom’s, _knock me up._

__

_I will _,__ Voldemort answers, and brings the boy’s hand down his tummy, so he can feel the shadow of the Alpha’s cock beneath his skin __“_ pump you full of my seed. Leave you with a belly full of cum. You’ll bear beautiful, powerful heirs for me, Harry.”_

 

With that and a sob, the pleasure almost painful in its lewdness, the thought of impregnation filthy and illegal and wonderful, Harry comes hard, his eyes rolling back and his cunt clenching tightly, adoringly, around Voldemort’s cock. The Dark Lord half laughs, half groans his own pleasure, biting the boy’s neck again and not ceasing to fuck him.

 

Having bear the world’s weight on his narrow shoulders for so long, Harry feels now a shameful, selfish joy. He’s not a saviour here, here’s not the chosen one, he’s a Omega and his hole, receiving pleasure as much as he gives, he is the hunger his body feels.

 

 _Alpha _,__ Harry begs in parseltongue, his mind hazy and warm and his little cock hardening again, _fuck me more _!__

__

The Dark Lord obliges, perfectly happy in making him fall.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.


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